


Three Letters

by in_fini



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 13:53:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/in_fini/pseuds/in_fini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A letter describing birthday presents.<br/>A letter describing the past.<br/>And a letter describing how they violate Act 14 Section 3 of the Homeland Information Control Act.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Letters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tasbine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tasbine/gifts).



[A battered letter postmarked December 3, 2001; the envelope is addressed to Professor Rose Lalonde c/o the Comparative Literature Department at NYU; there is no return address.]

 

hi rose! thanks for the well wishes, ive been so busy lately since jake is growing up so fast! i can hardly believe hes already seven! he was so excited to get your birthday present, and when he saw that lara croft double pistol set, with the certificate of authenticity – his mouth dropped so far open you could catch a tinkerbull with it! you did such a good job with his present – nothing would do but that i take him out shooting right away, the eager little tyke! the pistols are a little large for him but i know hell grow into them and get to be a crack shot like his grandma :)

now as to my christmas present! i know you wanted to sell me back what you salvaged from the wreck of english enterprises, but its really quite all right! its reputation is pretty much irretrievably damaged, what with crockercorp accusing us of plotting to bring about the enslavement of mankind and the apocalypse. i bet that evil fucker was real happy with that one, smearing us for her terrible plan! the things some people try to do to their children. at least youre on good terms with your mother >:( remember to send her some flowers from me for christmas. oh, and for me – some archaeological equipment would be far more useful right now than the remains of my company. im really pining for some mapping tools, and lil jakey could use some bullets to go with those pistols!!! the way hes shooting well be out of ammo just in time for christmas ;D

now then, rose dearest, to address the last point in your letter, i know we miss each other terribly but you mustnt let your emotions cloud your judgment. the batterwitch was smug and satisfied enough after exiling me that she went off on one of her long absences and by all means take advantage of it!  youve really outdone yourself with your latest installment and once its published all your millions of fans will love it and those in the know will be that much more informed – but remember that she still has eyes and ears here and you risk declaring your side in this covert war, and then shell try to do to you what she did to me. i just want you to be safe! id love it if we – or you – could kick her abusive tyrannical ass back to the alien planet she came from, but im strangely not as mad as i wouldve been twenty years ago, or even just ten. ive got jake to take care of now, and as much as ive always wanted to take care of you youve proven time and again that youre more than capable of achieving your goals and im just amazed. gosh rose, im so proud of you. you should know i think of you as family – maybe more so than even my poor lost brother :( we may not have trusted or even liked each other at first but now i can honestly say that you are the person i trust most to inherit my role in the Resistance, with your farseeing eyes and unwavering determination. i think the world is in good hands.

oh forgive an old lady her ramblings, dear, im feeling uncommonly anxious. i think ill post this letter to you and then take jake hunting, give him some practice on those monsters plaguing my pumpkin patch! tell that strider boy i quite liked his most recent film, and have him send me another of those ridiculous christmas trees, what are they called, kringlefuckers? i love them! just send it to the regular address, ill have someone pick them up – and no spying to see where they go this time! the less you know the better off youll be!

merry christmas and all my love,

jade harley <3

 

A Letter from the Desk of Rose Lalonde, Chair of the Comparative Literature Department at NYU and _New York Times_ Bestselling Author

[submitted to the New York Times, obituary section, December 1, 2010]

It is with great regret that I announce my departure from the faculty here at NYU. I have spent many enjoyable years here first as a student, then as a professor of comparative literature and author in residence, and I will take many fond memories with me when I leave. However, the furor over the recent appointment of a two-bit stage magician to the office of President whose qualifications barely extend to the tying of her shoes and the election of a juggalo too stoned to apply her face paint neatly as Mayor of New York has prompted me to both make a public farewell to the university I loved and to pen a memorial to a mentor and friend, whose disappearance I am afraid will never be explained to my satisfaction.

In my youth, I was a stubborn, precocious child. I was told that it was strange and unusual for me to read, and that my people were not interested in fantasy and wizards. It was difficult for a young black girl to fight back when condescending amusement met me at every turn, from the librarian who remained eternally skeptical of my choice of fantastical reading material to the endless white male protagonists populating these works.  So it was encouraging, to say the least, when “Jade English, Time Lord” began airing at five o’clock PM on Wednesday nights. She was brash and bold, exploring planets distant in both space and time in her sarcophagus, assault rifle at the ready to defeat evil and defend the innocent. Despite the show’s tendencies towards heavy-handed moralizing and excessive use of puppetry, it was inevitable that I would find a role model in Ms. English’s eponymous character, and to partake in consumer society by purchasing the associated licensed merchandise. I began to devise amateurish fancies of my own, where Ms. English stopped by an isolated house in the Adirondacks to invite a friendless child along on her adventures. And so I began writing, stories where race and gender were simply irrelevant, where heroic deeds were done and arcane majyyks conjured without the arbitrary restrictions found in reality.

Years later Jade English found my work in obscure horror and fantasy magazines and extended a personal invitation to her office, for what purpose I could scarcely imagine. I came dressed for a job interview; she appeared forty-five minutes late in an surreal combination of a fitted black blazer and an utterly destroyed floor-length skirt with red leggings. I was reserved; she was overly familiar. We talked at cross-purposes for half an hour, growing ever more frustrated, until I understood that she was seeking a director of marketing. As I was still idealistic and terribly confused at how in the world my stories had convinced my childhood hero that I was a good candidate for the position, I excused myself and left, contemplating the vast difference between expectations and reality. A month later a rent check and a handwritten note appeared in my mailbox, on which was hastily scrawled, “sorry I screwed up last time! wanna do lunch?” and a location and time.  On that occasion, we simply discussed literature, and I was put in touch with the people who would soon publish my first novel and help catapult me to fame.

Jade English maintained a constant presence in my life, from the champagne delivered every week that my work stayed on the New York Times bestseller list, to the unexpected, occasionally inconvenient extended visits that occurred whenever she tired of her abode at the time. She loved to hear me read aloud whatever I had written since the last time she had appeared on my doorstep, and was a fount of insightful criticism and ridiculous suggestions. We grew close, although our relationship was never made public – we both valued our privacy, though for differing reasons. She grew in my eyes from a distant idol to a dear comrade and invaluable guide. Her charitable efforts and her continued defense of people all unaware of her labors on their behalf served as an example that I diligently followed. The slow disintegration of her beloved company and her eventual exile in disgrace hurt her the most because she could no longer help those whom she had sworn to defend. At her core, Jade English – which, by the by, is a pseudonym – was a stalwart champion of freedom and justice who never compromised her values and never surrendered.

You may be wondering why, sixteen years after her public disgrace and exile from the public eye, I am writing this in the past tense and publishing it in the obituary section. Jade English was murdered nine years ago. She died alone, s͘u̧r̀r͞o̵un̵de̴d by he̢r҉ ̀en̸e҉m̛ies. She was more th̕an fa̸m͘i͝ly͘ ̶ to me – and I fa̡̛i͡͠lȩḑ̕ to ṙ͒ͦ͑̈́̽͢͝ę͐̍́ͫ̐͞s̓͗͐ͯ̓̀͢c̒̔͘͢ũ̧ͪ͌͛ͮ̏͛e̸͐̆͐̓ ̍̏͑ͫ̌́̅h͒͂̈ͮ́͟҉e̸̓̌͒̏̒̾̚r̒̊ͤ́͂̔́̽͢ A̦͚l̝͕̦͡l͞ ̗a͕l̢̹o̙̗̻͙ń͈e̞͉̞͚̞̱̘͝ –

 A v͇͙ͦͬ̎ͦ̓ͮi̩ͭ͂c̷͑t̻̫͚̥î̹̇̅ͦ̓͞m͈͈̳̞̻̄ of that m͓̞̦̣͎̬͌̌̂͞ͅų͓̗͔̳̥̆̇͑̓̉ͦͦ͛r̷̰̱̭̹̈̎d̨̬͕̱̞̿̽̿̄́e̴͖͌́ͧ̍r̶͍̳̽̆̉̿̒̆͋̀o̅̄̀͢ͅȕ̖̼̼̬̱͚ͯ̃̿ͯ̎̑͂ͦ̕͟s̷͌̅̏̓͏̣̹̗̹̦̺̼ t̩͖̪̎̋̀r͖̠̟͙͕̞̽̆̇̂͗͛̎ͫͫ͘͢ę͖̲̲͓̳̬̟̯̀a̮̞ͪ̽̌̍ͩ̽́͠ċ̝̥̝͚͕ͭ̃̈́̄̏ͣ͟͡h̖͔̭̾ͭ́͘ͅe̡͕̭̦͖̬ͨ̆͛͊̀r̢̝͍ͣ̉͌͋o͎͚͕̤̥̎̆̾́ͧ̀̓́͢͜u̼͍̳̥̘̩͍ͨ̊̍̋͋̑̀̉͠͞s̨̪̜̹̼̦͚̭ͩ̔̄͐͟͟ ̶͓̯̦͓͇̙̠̮̎ͫs͊̆̓̔͗͢҉̗̲̩͎̟ḛ̴̝͈̮̩̜́̃̾͌ͬ̚ẩ̠͚̖-̭w̶̢̦͎̩̟̏ͮĩ̴̹̖̥ͥ̓ͨ̿̇́͢ṫ̨̰͈̤̻̓͛ͧ̓̆ͥç̵̩̠̋ͫ̂́̚͡h̳̣̮̠̯͔̦̘̜̓͂ͦͪͣ

I couldn't save her.

  ̵̨̺͈̲̙̥̬͙̖̬̖̬̆́ͣ͐̅͊͐̋̍̒̔͂̇̀ͧ͐̾̅ͩ͢ ̴̛̹̫͕̹̫̘̂̋ͬ̑ͤ̈̈́ͧ̿̀ͅ ̡͔͓̮̺͉̗͖̥̠̥ͧ̋ͪ́͋ͮ̋ ̴͖͙͇̫͙̼̠͌͂̔͂ͦ̿̕ ̡͖̭͇̗͉̟͇̤͕̳̔͐ͥ̿̀͟ ̷̢̢̛̫̹̙̻͔̩͓̖͔̥̫͔̫̈͒͊̊̀͐̌ͬͯͮ̎ͪ̿͒ͤ͑̋ͪ̓ͅ ̡̨̬͚̲͙̰ͤ̔̍̀͆̄̇ͯ̓ͩͩ͑̽ͧ͊ͬ̈́͒̃́ ̷̵͕̙̩̳̲̱͉͓̞̱̗͍͕̦̞̰͑͋̂̂̑ͭ͗ͣͬ̆͑ͦ̓̓͠͝ͅ ̶̳̣̟̪̘̖̊͗́̍ͣ̌̃̈́̇ͫͯ̍͂ͦ͜͢ ̛͓̲̩̞̟̞̠̹̦͕̼̺̘̣̩̯́͛͆̈̀͜͠ ̨̹̪̣̱̬̦̳̭̬̎̆̅̇ͬ̐ͣ͊̓̊ͥͨ̄͞͞ͅ ̴̘͎͔͕̥̬͚̞ͧ̂ͩ͐̃̍̂̈́̿͛̅͌͑̑̿ͭͥ͡ ̡̛ͬ̀͌́̎ͭ̆̂̿̒̊̇̂̋̅͊̿͒̀̚҉͓̺̬̥̭͍̖͓ͅ ̴͉̖̘̻̼̤̖̼̩͉̜̤͚͈̼͖ͤͫ̾̔̓̈͌̈̐̄̄̈́̆̾͢͠ͅͅ ̷̨͚̼̖͖̪͖͕͖͖̼̰͈̳͈͓̖̫͎͉̏ͩ͛ͦ̍͟͟ ̧̨̨̱̥̘̼̠͎͍̼͔̝͎͍̭͈͍̮ͮ̿̃̏͂ͩ̇ͮͫ̅ͫ̕ ̵̸̻̲̲̱̺̼̻͙̝̯͎̝͖͔̮̍͗ͬ̆́͘ͅ ̨̢̹͇̖͓̜̙̬̻͖̣̘̗̮̩̋̊̒̈ͨͧ͗̅ͫ̚ ̶̷͇͙̗̥̬͇͇̭̯͚̜̯̤͇̼͓̜̩͆̋͆͑͋ͮͣ̉̊̀ͦ͑ͨ̚̕͞ͅ ̤̠̖͕̻̺̹̘̲̺̤͌̒̅͊̎̿́͘͝ ̵̨̖͙̺̥ͣ̍͋ͩͯ̉̈͆ ̛͕̤̖̜̭̠̹̟̼̪͔͔̮̔̿͗ͧ̓̆̉̕͢͡͡ͅ ̢̧͙̘͖͔̮̗̱̱̩̥̭̙̋̃ͫ̃ͫ̋ͧ̍̉̒̊͗̏ͪ͌̀͜͡͡ ̢̘͉̟̜̭̤͇͈͖͔̻̺̰̗̫̝̟̻̤ͧ́ͤ̂̾ͦ͒ͩͫ͠ ̧͚͉̳͚̥͖͍̘̲̘͉̣̝̱̦̣̜ͥ̽́̽ͦ͋ͧ͜͝ͅ ̶̡͒̋̔̐͗ͤͮ̿ͬ̈́̾̾̇͋̐͏̱̱͇̮ ͍̫̯̭̱̮̭̜͖͈͓̙̘̜̪̘ͧ̾ͦͪ̇ͨ͐̐̒̊̓ͦ͋̍͌ͧ͋̃̌͘ ̶͎̜̼̫̱̞͐͊̏̚͟͞ ̡͙̟͚̬̥͍̲̜̺̱͚̩̗̪̤͓͉͇̦̎̽̿ͥ̌͆͆͛ͣ̐͑͋͑̇͛͗̀̚͘͢͠ ̢̓̀̏̒̎̔ͮ̀̋ͧ̏͐ͨ̿̐ͫ҉̯̫̮̫̹̪̺͖́͢͜ ̢̛͔̬̠̙̗̮͚͕͓̺ͭͥ͐ͦ̑͟͝ ̛͚̳̩̰̭̹̮̜͔͕͉͚̣͍̦̜̝̟̦ͦͩ̋ͩ̕̕ ̷̝̼̺̭͖̞͍̠͍̜̬̲͇̜͓̖̮̟̊̔̄̀̐̇́͠ͅ ̛̬̗͎̖̰̠̼̘͙̼̯̭̈́ͣ̓ͥ́͗ͣ̍ͨ̍͌͌̋͝͠ ̸̯͔͇̲̘͍̼̤͋̋̄ͣͣͨ̿̌̀̈́̋̽̓ͥ̑̔̚͟ ̗̬̼͍̱̹̳̗ͫ̿̅̏ͣ̏ͥ̈́̑̋̑͋̎͆̓̄̌ͥ͡ ̵̛̜͙͙̖͚̼͍̯͖̆ͦ̄͒͛̎̎ͭͮͧ͢͟͡ ̷̧̢̰̣̫͚̗̖̰̜̤̫̫ͫ̄̓̏̾̒̄̐̈͑ͩ̚͢͡ ̶̇̅̉͊̈́̂͑͗ͯͧ͑͑ͪ̏̿͗̎̚͏̠̗̯̯̠̩̻͉͍͇̲͉̗̹ͅ ̴̛̤̮̥͔͈̳̣̹̺͚̰̪̭͖͍̎͑̑̍̿̓̑ͦ̌̒̔͌̓͌ ̸̛̬͉̬̥̰̖̙͎̗̹̪̯̽ͮ̎̌ͫ́ͫ͜ ̎ͧͭ̊͞҉̵͕͉̠̩̖̭̪̰̲͔͚̬͚͍̪͘ ͚̺̩̲̺̲̬͕̦̪̎ͣ̐͌͆͆̋͛̽ͥ̈́ͩ̍̾̋͐ͤ͘͠ ̷̵̡͚̜̺̅̀̾̓ͪ̽́ ̵̨̘̮̬͉̭̲̪̌̀̌ͪ͌ͦ̌ͯͨͧ͌̽͌̿̚͡ ̢̥̹͍̙̤̞͇͇̺͆ͨͣ̔̋̀ͦ̓̋̄̌̎͆͑ͨ̄͋̏͟͟ ̶̞̳̰̟̝͍̜̭̤͔͇̥̟̺̲͉̻͍̪ͨ͆ͬ́̕͟ ̿͛ͭͯ̀ͯ͛ͭ͗̐͑ͯ͏͍̫͚̺ͅ ̨̨̫͓̳̼̮͇͍̩̠̤̰͈̰͔̑̈ͩ̀̚̕̕

[an email sent to author@roselalonde.net on December 2, 2011, by the submissions editor.]

Dear Ms. Lalonde,

We always welcome your insightful and often controversial articles; however, your latest submission is in violation of the new Homeland Information Control Act regarding anonymous sources and so cannot be published. We would of course be very interested in a revised article in accordance with the Act. For the sake of our obituary editor’s nerves, I invite you to send any revised material directly to our line editor at linedit@nytimes.com.

There is also extensive file corruption affecting the last several paragraphs of your submission, which I am sure you will want to look into. I look forward to hearing from you.

My best,

R. S.

[the email bounced.]


End file.
